Born of Ice

Maybe Kell had run over Merjack’s dog . . .

We’ve already taken care of his engineer, so he has an opening on his crew tailor-made by us for you. You are to bring him to justice, alive for trial, or so help me, I’ll rape your family myself and then throw you to the class-three felons and watch them take turns with you.

Whatever Kell had done to the CMOD had to have been fierce. There was no other reason for a hatred so strong.

“How did I get in the middle of this?”

But then, she already knew. Her father had been a freighter until six months ago, when his first mate had absconded with all of their savings. With no reserve, her family been forced into smuggling.

Unfortunately, her father had seriously stunk at that career, and had been apprehended two weeks ago and executed within twenty-four hours of his conviction. Because she, her mother and her sister were slaves, they’d been bound for the auction block to pay for his trial and execution.

Until Merjack had seen Alix.

Apparently, she bore a striking resemblance to someone in Kell’s past he’d cared about, and that alone had kept her from being sold to a brothel.

So here she was . . .

I’m so going to die.

Stop it, Alix. You can do this.

She was getting tired of that worn-out litany. The least the voice in her head could do was not sound so despondent when it said it.

You can do it!

Yeah, now she sounded like she was on drugs.

Swallowing her fear, she headed for bay Delta Alpha 17-4, where Kell’s ship, the Talia, was docked.

Just don’t let him kill me three seconds after meeting me. It would seriously screw up her already messed-up day.

She passed numerous freighters and fighters, the majority of which were outdated and barely legal for flight. Typical, really. Most of the people who visited the Solaras station were outlaws, grifters, prostitutes, fringe dwellers or pilots who needed the extra hazard pay that was offered to anyone dumb enough to fly through the Solaras system. Money for them was every bit as tight as it was for her.

But as she rounded a corner, she froze at the sight of what had to be the prettiest ship she’d ever seen. Her jaw dropped.

What I wouldn’t give for something like that . . .

It was absolutely stunning, with gentle lines and no sharp angles anywhere on her. Painted a dark vermillion with gold highlights, she dominated the hangar. That ship was definitely a lady who shamed every single spacecraft that was docked here. For that matter, she shamed every ship Alix had ever seen outside of ads and online catalogues.

Letting out a slow, appreciative breath, she forced herself to not even dream about that one and started looking for the Talia.

It’s probably a rusted-out tanker or freighter no better maintained than your father’s ship was. You’re definitely going to have your hands full keeping her in space.

Just let Kell not be as disgusting as my father’s crew.

That was the worst part about runners and smugglers. They were a low-hygiene bunch. It was like a badge of honor for them to out-stink each other.

Look on the bright side—at least this way you don’t have to sleep with his smelly hide.

True. With this mission, she only had to find or fabricate evidence to convict Kell before he killed her.

Go, me!

Pushing that frightening thought away, she counted off the bays as she passed them. “One . . . two . . . three . . .” She stopped as she came even with the ship that had caught her eye.

No. It couldn’t be.

She double-checked the numbers and sure enough, it was.

The Talia.

Whoa . . . A rush of excitement went through her until she remembered that she wasn’t really here to work. She was here to either frame or apprehend a vicious felon.

A killer.

“Dammit, Vik. How can you not know what’s wrong with this thing? Can’t you commune with it or something?”

She hesitated at that deep, rumbling voice that sounded like thunder. Lightly accented, it sent a shiver down her spine. Her heart pounding, she peeked around to the back and froze dead in her tracks.

If she’d thought the ship was something, it was nothing compared to the group of men who appeared to be its crew . . .

Oh. My. God.

The one who’d spoken had to be a good six foot four in height. Built in perfect proportions, he was lean and ripped. Broad shoulders tapered down to narrow hips and what had to be the finest butt she’d ever seen in her life—she could bounce a credit off that.

Or break a tooth biting it . . .

His black hair was cut short, but the front of it fell down into a pair of eyes so dark they blended perfectly into his pupils. Dark brows slashed parallel to sharp cheekbones, and his jaw had a becoming tic in it.

Oooh, that was totally lickable, too.

Power and strength bled from every pore of his body. An image that was perpetuated by the black Armstich suit hugging every dip and curve of his muscles and the holstered blasters that were strapped to his hips.